


Secrets

by dhampir72



Series: Transformations [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, M/M, Pre-Slash, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 18:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: For the anon prompt: Shapeshifter AU James has an unusual/multiple shifts





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon prompt from the MI6-Cafe Anon Prompt Exchange: Shapeshifter AU James has an unusual/multiple shifts  
> Anon, I'm not sure if this is exactly what you were looking for, but I've been looking for an excuse to not be shy about working on this WIP for a while, so your prompt gave me the courage to finish and post :D I hope that you enjoy!

**00Q00Q00Q**

 

_I need another story_  
_Something to get off my chest_  
_My life gets kinda boring_  
_Need something that I can confess_  
_Til' all my sleeves are stained red_  
_From all the truth that I've said_  
_Come by it honestly I swear_  
_Thought you saw me wink, no_  
_I've been on the brink, so_

_Tell me what you want to hear_  
_Something that will light those ears_  
_Sick of all the insincere_  
_I'm gonna give all my secrets away_

_-Secrets_ , OneRepublic

 

**00Q00Q00Q**

To many, James Bond was MI6’s greatest enigma.

Handsome, deadly, and with a record of more damage to foreign nations than one single man ought to be responsible for, he was always a topic of conversation. Knowing this only ballooned his ego, made him strut about with a bit more importance in his step. It served to draw more eyes and more attention, which is exactly what Bond reveled in the most.

So he kept on being handsome and deadly and destroying property, if only to keep the rumour mill moving. And the best way to do this, he learned was to never be too forthcoming about how he always managed to come back alive from even the worst of the worst missions.

During debrief, they always asked, but that did not mean Bond had to tell the entire truth. Half-truths, half-lies, maybe a bit of forgetful omission, a lost radio or earpiece. That’s not to say he never dropped some clues here and there, but no one ever picked up on them, except for M. But she had paperwork that forbid her from telling, even as he laid it on high and thick and he _knew_ she wanted to strangle him for it.

Knowing that she couldn’t do anything aside from gritting her teeth and biting her tongue, he would smile and say things like _resurrection_ and everyone would stare in awe and wonder. When they were alone, she would give him that look that meant she would like to throw him out the nearest window. But one time, Bond felt more than cocky and laughed and said she could try because _you know what they say._

(Her response had clearly been _fuck off._ )

Because of his secrecy, there were rumours (there had to be rumours or else they would not be in the business of espionage to begin with) and Bond knew that there had been more than one afternoon round-the-water-cooler discussion about what his True Form could be. Some swore it to be brute strength, like a lion or wolf, and others believed it more majestic, like an eagle or raptor.

Bond let them think what they wanted, because it was better than the truth, better than everyone discovering just how wrong they had been all these years. He couldn’t imagine it getting out and having their eyes and attention turn into jeers and whispers behind his back. The thought of all of that respect and awe and adoration disappearing was just too much to bear.

At least, no matter how bad he got with his storytelling or his destruction of international monuments, M never breathed a word to anyone. Bond wondered if it was out of the mutual respect they had carved between them during the past few years. At least, he hoped so. The thought that she might actually be ashamed of him was almost too much. Especially after she had been the only one to give him a chance, to let him into the Double-Oh Programme regardless of _that_.

So while it was common knowledge that Double-Oh Four’s Other form was a viper and Double-Oh Six took the form of a snow leopard, Bond’s Otherness remained shrouded in mystery.

(He preferred it that way.)

Then, after Skyfall, after M’s death, not a living soul knew his secret. Bond should have felt relief that no one could hold that over him and know of his deep-rooted embarrassment. Instead, he felt empty and abandoned, like there was a small hole in his chest where M used to be. He mourned in his own way and sometimes at night, he went to her headstone and wondered if she had made the right choice to trust him all those years ago.

( _Look where it got you._ )

Bond knew that the some of the lifers at MI6 began to think that maybe he did not even have at Other form at all, that he was a Null. Being Null was not such a bad thing, but being a high-ranking agent in Her Majesty’s Secret Service and _not_ having a Shift was...odd. It hadn’t always been that way, but during the Cold War, MI6 began actively recruiting persons who could Shift and training them to become field agents or intelligence operatives. It was believed that their animal instincts gave them an edge over their Null counterparts in high-stress situations or covert-ops. This preference for selecting persons with the ability to Shift extended to other government agencies, the armed forces, and emergency services personnel. Though not a requirement, most of these positions were filled by persons who had Other forms.

The Double-Oh Programme was no exception. Having an Other form was practically a requirement. And since Bond was a Double-Oh, he had to have an Other form; it was impossible otherwise.

Or was it?

The whispers had a different edge to them nowadays, even Bond could tell. Gone were the looks of awe and respect. Now, there was something else. Doubt, suspicion. Shouldn’t a Double-Oh like Bond been able to save M? Why hadn’t he Turned and protected her? What had happened up at Skyfall?

( _Skyfall_ he thought, _done_.)

Bond tried not to listen, tried to be fine with letting them talk and wonder, because if they thought he was a Null, that was fine with him. Being thought a Null might actually be better than everyone knowing the truth. So he continued being handsome--albeit a bit older and greyer and more exhausted than he’d ever felt in his life--and deadly and a nuisance to the properties of foreign governments.

And no one directly or indirectly approached him about the matter.

Except for Q.

In the months after Skyfall, Q had proved to be an asset to MI6. The security systems strengthened, the tech improved, and the overall outcome of missions resulted in more successes than failures. Bond himself preferred Q to help run his assignments over any other person in the division. He was calm, provided Bond with what he needed when he needed it, and managed to get him out of more than his fair share of tight spots. Because of that, Bond would say that he trusted Q, which is why when his Quartermaster brought up the subject of his Otherness, Bond felt almost violated.

“If you were interested,” Q said, as if sensing Bond’s unease.

They were in the privacy of Q’s corner office, away from the prying eyes and ears of the rest of the staff, when he brought up the new line of tech R&D had begun developing. It was a material that could endure the Transformation, adapting to both the human and animal body, most often in the form of a collar or other piece of jewellrey, which would allow agents to carry mission-important material with them despite their physicality. That could be anything as large as a gun or laptop to something as small as an SD card or zip drive. They were even in the process of developing an earpiece that could adapt to both the human and familiar form, preventing agents from going into situations Transformed but without backup.

“No,” Bond replied, because he knew the next order of business would be invading that last small piece of his privacy: height and weight measurements, body type inquiry, and then requirements that he take on his Other form to be fitted properly.

Bond trusted Q, he realised, almost as much as he had trusted M, but the hole in his chest was still there from her loss and he was not sure anyone could take her place. The thought of exposing himself like that again, putting himself out there for ridicule, rejection, _laughter_ , was not something he could do.

(Not right now.)

“No,” Bond said again, and turned to leave.

“Of course,” Q said to his back. “My apologies.”

When Bond stopped in the doorway and looked back at Q, he saw nothing but sincerity in his expression. It was a rare thing to see today, especially in their business where deceit and trickery was the norm. From all his experience in the field, Bond might have thought it contrived, but Q had never been anything less than truthful in the entire time Bond had known him. His honesty was real; it always had been, and always would be.

He nodded at Q, accepting the apology, and left.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Q never brought it up again, for which Bond was grateful.

They still continued working together professionally (sometimes bordering unprofessional depending on how far they could get with their banter over the comms before Q put a stop to it or someone started shooting at Bond) and the trust between them remained. It held despite how little they knew about one another, or, as it probably was, how little Bond knew about Q, who had probably been given access to (or hacked) Bond’s files. It was not unnatural for a Double-Oh to not know much about his handler; they came and went almost as quickly as agents were killed in the field and new ones took their place. But Q was a steady presence in his ear that Bond came to depend on, and it pulled at his curiosity more than he wanted to admit. There was a saying about that, too, but Bond pointedly ignored it.

“Is there something I can do for you, Double-Oh Seven?” Q asked, not looking up from his computer as Bond appeared at his workstation in the bullpen. The privacy screen made it impossible for Bond to see what he was working on, though the projected images on the wall indicated the Division to be monitoring something--or some _one_ \--in South Korea.

“Tanner asked me to bring this down to you,” Bond said, dropping a thick folder onto the workstation. Q spared only half a glance at it.

“Riveting reading material,” Q said, typing out something rapidly. The surveillance image switched on the screen to another view, which showed a busy street in Seoul. Q stared at it much more intently than the folder and after a second, the camera zoomed in on a dark-haired woman walking purposefully through the crowds. His rapt attention was so intense that Bond could not look away from him. Was this what Q looked like when Bond was out there and every second counted?

“I’m sure,” Bond replied, watching as the video feed changed again. The camera captured the woman’s face perfectly at the new angle. Q had the system freeze for a moment to take a still image, then began running a face-authentication program in the lower right hand corner of the screen.

“Is there anything else, Bond?” Q asked, and it was not unkindly, but the tone of someone who had too many other things on his mind to be engaging in small talk. Behind the lenses of his glasses, Bond saw the dark circles beneath Q’s eyes.

“When was the last time you Shifted?” Bond asked, before he could stop himself.

In truth, Bond was going out on a limb. He was almost completely certain that Q could Shift--there was just something that felt _Other_ about him--but this was the test to validate it. And his assumption proved correct when Q gave a small tell: his fingers faltered for half a second before continuing on at their previous speed. It was no wonder; asking someone when they had last Shifted was almost an indirect insult, like asking someone when they had bathed last when wanting to hint that they smelled in need of a washing. But Bond had not meant it offensively, but rather as a point of concern.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Q replied, once again not harshly, but now with an undercurrent of gentle warning to not prod. Some of Q’s staff watched them openly while others tried to be more discrete in pretending that they were not listening. And although Bond was sure that there existed a few Others in the department with above-human-average hearing, he leaned a bit closer to Q to speak anyway.

“I forget, too, sometimes, when I’m working.”

Q’s typing slowed noticeably. When he turned his head slightly, Bond noticed that he tilted his face down and to the side instead of upwards, a clear sign of submissiveness. It was strange to see that in Q, who ran an entire division with a quiet but firm dominance, who unflinchingly fought for (and won) funding in executive budgetary meetings, and who held his own against agents and Double-Ohs alike.

But in that moment, Bond could tell that Q had reverted back to his basic instincts: they were in close physical proximity and not only was Bond older, but physically much larger and stronger than Q. Even though Bond was not challenging him for territory or power, Q still recognised him as an alpha. It was a rush Bond had never experienced before in this form; humans did not submit like animals did naturally, and the closest Bond had ever come to that sort of surrender had been during intercourse. It was new and felt _good_ ; good in a way that felt primal but not sexual.

“Have you used one of the meditation rooms?” Bond asked.

Meditation rooms were calming and private spaces for necessary Changes that happened in the office. After Silva’s attack on the old headquarters, their underground location had been immediately outfitted with the necessary spaces for their employees. Although Bond himself had never been in one, he knew that MI6 required employees to Change in these rooms if their work shifts extended over ten straight hours. It was to avoid mental and physical exhaustion or stress which could trigger unwanted transformations. MI6 had several in each department that could be reserved from anywhere to ten minutes to four hours. There were even larger rooms designed specifically for pack members to retreat to together, after it had been proven that recoveries from illness, stress, and exhaustion were much faster with a packmate present.

“I’m busy,” Q replied simply, looking back at his screen.

“You need to, though,” Bond said, with gentle authority, as he moved closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth of Q’s body and detect the scent of mint in his hair.

Q did not move away from him, though Bond could sense his tension and desire to put space between them. Bond stopped crowding him, but his sleeve brushed Q’s when he went to put his hands into his pockets. Q pointedly stared at his keyboard, even though Bond knew he did not need to look in order to type. His body language screamed how uncomfortable he felt, not only at the conversation, but their proximity; Bond also thought he caught a scent reminiscent of fear, but it was so subtle that he could not be certain. The fact that Bond could read all of his usually-stoic Quartermaster’s emotions prompted him to continue sincerely:

“You’ll get overwhelmed if you don’t.”

“Yes, thank you for your concern,” Q replied, bristling at Bond’s insinuation. The Double-Oh could sense the strain in the fine strands of Q’s self-control. He must have been more worn-down than Bond had assumed; if he was not careful, he might trigger Q to Shift in front of his entire department. Not only would that be a source of perpetual embarrassment for Q, but would also strip him of whatever privacy he wanted to maintain over his Other form. Bond stepped back, giving Q the space he obviously desired.

“Take care of yourself, Q,” Bond said.

When Q did not say anything, did not even look back at him, Bond took that as his dismissal and left.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond never brought it up again and Q most certainly did not and so things continued on as they were. He and Q still worked together and Q still gave him a gun and a radio but not much else. Q said that until Bond brought something back, that was all he would get.

“If I wanted to play fetch, I would have been Born a dog,” Bond replied.

“If you didn’t want to play fetch, you shouldn’t have signed up for Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” Q told him, as he slid the gun case across his workstation.

Bond met his eyes: a calm forest green behind the lenses of his glasses. He had Shifted recently. Bond could tell by the absence of exhaustion in his clear focus and steady gaze.

“That’s the point of being a Double-Oh. No kennel, no collar,” Bond replied, taking the case.

His fingers brushed Q’s before the other man could withdraw them. They were cool, like the earth after a rainstorm. It brought something to mind that Bond couldn’t quite name, something that his Other form had no words for, but knew somehow.

“Yes, I suppose neither suit you,” Q said, pulling his hand away to procure a folder, which he placed on top of the case.

Inside were his new identification papers, passport, and boarding passes to Karachi. Bond breezed through them quickly, almost indifferently. He could feel Q watching him.

“But,” Bond said, when Q did not continue.

“But that doesn’t mean you’re incapable of bringing equipment back,” he said, adjusting his glasses with the gentle touch to the corner of his right frame. Bond watched the movement, distracted by the way the light reflected on a decorative grommet. Q noticed; Bond could tell, by the way the corner of his mouth twitched, but did not smile. “So I’ll make you a proposition.”

“Go on,” Bond said.

“If you bring something back in working order, you’ll get something special,” he replied.

“Something special,” Bond repeated.

“Yes, something special. In this line of work, something that explodes or could be used to kill someone in an ingenious new way,” Q said and raised his eyebrows. “Sound fair?”

Bond regarded him with narrowed eyes.

“What is your definition of _working order_?”

Q shook his head and went back to his computer.

“Never mind. I suppose it’s true what they say about _old dogs_ and _new tricks._ ”

Bond tucked the folder and case under his arm as he headed for the door.

“I hate dogs,” he said. He felt Q’s gaze on him again.

“Yes, I suppose you would,” Q replied, using the word _suppose_ but in a way that said there was no supposition about it.

Bond stopped in the doorway and looked back at Q, who watched him intently over the top portion of his frames. In that moment, Bond felt as if Q did not see his human body, but the Other form beneath, and there was something intimately predatory about it. Bond felt something take root in his spine, something instinctual that screamed _flight_ or _fight_. But it was Q, who he trusted, who was honest, and who turned his gaze away and did not get up from behind his desk to approach Bond. He went back to his computer as if nothing had happened, even though Bond _knew_ that Q had somehow _seen_. And then he said, like he usually did:

“Good luck in the field, Double-Oh Seven. And do try to bring the equipment back in one piece.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond tried not to think about what had happened between them, but it was difficult. He should have known; Q was not a genius for no reason. But just like before, Q did not bring up the topic and there was nothing in his tone that gave any of his thoughts away on the subject. So Bond pushed it to the back of his mind and did the job. He returned from Karachi two weeks later with only one bruised rib and both his gun and radio in tact. Six days later, when he was getting kitted in preparation for his next mission in Latvia, Q gave him a gun, a radio, and a handsome set of cufflinks.

“They’re miniature explosive devices,” Q explained. “You can tack them onto hard surfaces or throw them. If you plant them, you only have thirty seconds before detonation. If you decide to throw them, pull the stem to full length beforehand. They will explode upon impact.”

“So I don’t have to bring these home,” Bond said, looking at the shiny gift. As much as he liked looking at them, he did want to play with them.

“No. They’re specifically for you to destroy,” Q replied, and handed him another folder. Bond thought he saw the ghost of a smile. “Have fun.”

And Bond did.

**00Q00Q00Q**

It took Bond some time to realise that Q was training him.

He was lying in a hotel room in Beijing with a beautiful woman beside him when he came to this conclusion. Q gave him new gadgets when Bond brought things home and usually withheld them when Bond did not. It was much like giving treats to a dog for doing a trick or scolding one for having a piss on the carpet. Just for that, Bond made sure to lose the earpiece in a careless rooftop chase and tossed the gun at the end of the mission, despite having cared for it the entire time. He did not feel guilty until he returned to HQ and saw the flicker of disappointment that Q tried to hide from him.

“Occupational hazard,” Bond said in his defence, even though he had a feeling Q knew the truth. He did have eyes everywhere, after all.

“Indeed,” Q replied, tapping out something on his tablet, refusing to look up at Bond, who left shortly after. He told himself again that he did not feel guilty that evening, as he drank some of his best scotch in the darkness of his bare flat. After all, Bond did not owe Q anything.

M’s ugly old bulldog glared at him accusingly from the coffee table.

No, Bond did not owe Q anything, he owed him _everything_.

Bond knew that after Skyfall, Q had defended his actions to Mallory and the PM, keeping him from an early and shameful retirement. He had consistently kept Bond alive during the past year, even with just a gun and a radio. Bond had admitted to himself more than once that he trusted Q more than anyone else at MI6. And Q asked for nothing in return except that Bond take care of his equipment. If he did, it did not mean that Q had domesticated him, it indicated mutual respect.

So after his next mission, he made sure to bring back the gun and earpiece in pristine condition. Q was so pleased that he modified a brand new Breitling that could pick virtually any lock, digital or analog. Bond liked it so much that he asked to keep it.

“Oh, is it finally Christmas, then?” Q asked, raising an eyebrow at him, amused.

Bond just laughed, surprised at how easy it came to him.

“Something like that.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Just because it was an unspoken subject between them did not mean that Bond did not think about it.

Sometimes, in-between missions for required recovery days, Bond would lurk in Q-Division. Q rarely had time for him, as he was always doing something: moving about from one department to the other, or from the bullpen to his office, or somewhere upstairs for meetings with other department heads, sometimes even M. While observing, Bond could almost see Q’s Otherness beneath his flesh, lending him a grace to balance many projects as well as an agility of body and mind to get everything done within strict time restraints. Q made it seem as effortless as a dance, a performance that no one else but Bond seemed to appreciate.

Even when he was not physically moving, Q still did not stop. One day, he sat down to code something and was in the exact same position when Bond returned four hours later, back still straight, eyes sharp and focused. Those were actually Bond’s favourite times, despite the lack of motion. There was something captivating about it, about Q’s ability to be so dedicated without restlessness or fatigue, and Bond made excuses to be around to watch.

Sometimes he brought Q tea, other times sandwiches, and it was mostly because Bond did not see him eat or drink otherwise; he was too busy. Bond discovered quickly that Q was left-handed: if he put food or drinks on Q’s right side, he would not consume them, but would if the items were on placed the left. It was only after trial and error that Bond learned the way Q liked his tea (Earl Grey, steeped two minutes with three sugars; no milk unless the Russians were involved) and that he did not like pumpernickel bread or cucumbers (if these rejected remains left on sandwich plates were anything to go by). Meanwhile, Q-Division staff watched him come and go with these offerings, but did not say a word to him or intervene in any way.

It was only when Bond ran into Eve that he found out why.

“They think what?” he asked.

“That you’re propositioning Q,” she replied, and at his look, she smirked. “What? You have a reputation.”

“I’m not propositioning for anything,” Bond said, and for once in his life, truly meant it. He had no ulterior motives aside from curiosity. And where he could admit that Q was strangely pleasing in an aesthetic sense, Bond did not lust for him sexually.

(Though if the opportunity arose to take Q to bed, Bond knew he would take it without a second thought.)

“Oh,” Eve said, and she looked surprised but tried to hide it. “It seems like it.”

“Why?” Bond asked.

“Well, I mean, think about it. Neither of you has a pack, let alone a mate,” Eve said, and shrugged. “People assumed.”

“What does Q think?” Bond asked, because, really, he wondered.

It was hard to read the man, even after over a year of knowing him. All Bond knew was that Q was very good at what he did and that he had a witty, dry sense of humour and that he enjoyed creating new things to give to Bond to kill people. Bond did not know anything personal about him beyond how Q took his tea and that he did not care for cucumbers and pumpernickel. He did not know where Q grew up or went to school or if he had a family. He did not even know Q’s name.

“Who knows?” Eve replied, and she looked a little sad. “But he’s not telling you to stop, so maybe you should keep up with it. The both of you seem to get on.”

“No,” Bond said, shaking his head.

He did not have a pack for a reason and did not want to take on a mate for those same reasons. A Double-Oh’s life was hard and short. It would not be fair to take on the responsibility of a pack and lover only to abandon them. Bond was a lot of things, but he could not be cruel to someone who did not deserve it.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond stopped bringing the tea and sandwiches. He stopped lurking in Q-Division on his days off. The staff members eventually stopped staring when he appeared infrequently and only to get kitted. He and Q still worked together, but Bond felt the difference. Q acted a bit colder, kept their skin from touching when he handed over equipment and paperwork. He never looked up at Bond, always focusing on something else whenever the agent was in the same room.

One time, Bond got him to look up, but Q squinted at him like looking at him hurt, and quickly turned his gaze downward again. The worst was that sometimes, Bond caught a whiff of a scent that only someone with an acute sense of smell could identify: something like sadness or grief.

Bond told himself that the situation was not his doing--that too many people had read into things--and it was not his fault that they had gotten the wrong impression. He could not take a pack, just like the other Double-Ohs did not have one. They lived solitary lives because they had to, not only out of fear of abandoning those they cared for, but also because of the uncertainty that their pack might be used against them somehow. It was not unheard of for the mates and pack members of agents to be kidnapped and used as blackmail. Bond could not afford it, not in his line of work. Q had to understand that, if that even what his melancholy was about.

After some time, the little rewards for bringing back equipment dwindled. Q made an excuse about budget cuts, but his voice rang hollow with the lie. Bond pretended not to notice, just as he said nothing about the dark circles under Q’s eyes or the obvious sharpening of his cheekbones or the fact that he seemed to get thinner by the day.

But while on assignment, the night before the second phase of his mission, he found himself unable to concentrate, feeling suddenly wrong and angry. He paced the floor and drank from the mini bar, thinking himself stupid for even wanting to consider an alternative to this lifestyle. But he trusted Q more than anyone, now maybe even more than M, and that had to mean something.

Sitting down despite his restlessness, Bond put his head into his hands. His skin felt stretched taut over his bones. He wanted to Shift, but knew that in his current state, he might not be able to switch back by morning, and he had a job to do. So Bond drank until he found the courage that had eluded him and tapped at his earpiece. He knew that, despite the hour, Q would be there, because he was always there when Bond needed him.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the empty room.

Q did not reply, but Bond knew he heard.

He caught all the green lights on the way to the airport the next day and had been upgraded to a first class seat from Belize to his next assignment in France.

**00Q00Q00Q**


	2. Chapter 2

The mission went pear shaped and Bond barely made it out before the place burnt to the ground.

When he returned to London in a stolen Audi, he was most definitely worse for wear: covered in cuts and burns and bruises, smelling like fire and ash, and with a suit so torn up that he doubted it could ever be salvaged. All he wanted to do was sleep. His skin itched with tiredness and the deep-seated desire to revert into his Other form. But there were more important things to be taken care of, which is why Bond went straight to MI6 instead of taking the route back to his flat. He avoided Medical’s section of the labyrinth at all costs, taking the long way round to Q-Division.

It was late and there were few people about, but Bond skirted the main floor of the department regardless. He did not want to be seen, not like this, not when the mission had gone badly and he felt, for the first time in a long time, so fragile and uncertain. The light in Q’s office was on; the door had been left open a crack and Bond let himself inside. Q looked up immediately as he entered and closed the door, but did not say anything. Bond could not read his expression.

“Lost my equipment,” Bond said, to break the quiet. It was the first time he had spoken out loud in hours. His voice came out raspy and hard, burning from all the smoke he had inhaled.

“I could care fuck all about the equipment, Bond,” Q replied, voice steadily calm despite the swear.

It might have been the light, but Q’s eyes were so dark green they looked black. Bond did not know what to say, did not know if there was anything _to_ say, and stood there silently.

After a moment, Q’s intensity softened and he stood up. He came round the desk towards Bond and stood in front of him. It was the first time in over a month that they had been so close. Even with the overwhelming reek of smoke and ash from his own skin, Bond could smell the familiar barely-there scent of Q’s mint shampoo. It made him want to bury his nose into Q’s dark curls and stay there indefinitely.

 _Safe_ he thought.

“You need to Shift,” Q said, as he touched Bond’s lapel.

“I know,” Bond replied, before he could stop himself.

The need felt greater than before, even more so as Q began to disrobe him. His jacket fell unceremoniously to the floor at his feet, followed by his tie. Q removed his cufflinks and watch, placing them safely on his desk. When he returned, Q paused at the top button of Bond’s dress shirt and looked up at him, as if seeking permission to continue.

“I’ll take care of you,” Q told him, when Bond did not say anything, and there was nothing but open honesty in his eyes.

And Bond trusted him.

He nodded. Q made quick work of his shirt and then the rest of his clothes as Bond toed out of his shoes and socks. It felt strange to be standing completely bare in Q’s office, but his nudity did not come with shame or arousal. Q regarded him patiently, with no disgust at his bruises and burns and cuts and no lust for his naked body.

Instead, he touched Bond’s forearm with his river-cool fingertips and said again: “I promise, I’ll take care of you.”

Bond gave in.

Shifts were blissfully painless and quick; sometimes after a long time going without, they actually felt good, like taking off a too-small shirt or pair of tight trousers. This time, it felt a blessed relief.

When Bond opened his eyes again, he was on the floor, staring up at Q from the pile of clothes that smelled like a burning fire. He pinned his ears back at the overwhelming number of scents surrounding him. At first, Bond’s instinct was _run, hide_ , but he forced himself to sit still as Q knelt down before him. He held out his hand directly within Bond’s line of sight, low and with his fingers curled towards the carpet. It was pointedly not a grabbing motion.

 _Food?_ his animal mind wondered.

 _Friend, safe,_ Bond supplied, and leaned towards Q’s outstretched hand.

His fingers smelt vaguely of some kind of synthetic material like plastic and--what Bond knew, but his animal mind struggled to identify as--gunpowder. But there was also something sugary sweet that overwhelmed another scent, slightly bitter, but not too acrid, more spicy, and Bond knew it as much as he did not. And there, just beneath it all, the distinct scent of Q’s Otherness. Bond could not put it into words if he tried, because it made more of a picture in his mind: earth and moss and clear-running streams. Bond’s instincts kicked in again, insisting _predator, danger, run, hide_ but Bond fought his nature. Q said he would not hurt him and Bond believed him. He brushed his face against Q’s hand, up under his fingers and palm, and Q eventually got the hint and began petting him.

“I’m sure that must feel much better,” Q said, not sounding at all surprised at the sight before him.

Bond realised then that Q must have really figured it out that one day, months ago, because he did not even seem the slightest bit phased at the blue-eyed, grey and white tabby cat looking up at him. Bond laid his ears back again and nipped at his forefinger in annoyance, but not hard enough to make him bleed.

“I didn’t mean it in a patronising way,” Q informed him, and resumed petting him. Bond allowed it because his body all but begged for touch, and Q was very gentle with him. He kept his hand light over Bond’s fur as if to not aggravate his bruises and stayed clear of the burns and cuts on his chest and ribs. It was soothing, Bond thought absently, as his human consciousness lulled into quiet and his feline mind took the forefront. He lay down on the floor and stretched himself out, and Bond might have chastised himself any other time for purring when Q scratched under his chin, but it felt so good that he could not be arsed to care.

His awareness of time dimmed, something that Bond did not allow to happen to him often. Losing track of time could lead to dangerous things in his profession and though he might be careless in some aspects of his job, that was not one of them. But there was something about Q’s hands on him--hands that he trusted with his life, with his secrets--that allowed Bond to let go. He did not even resist when Q gently took him up and cradled him in his arms. The sensation of being held in such a way was unparalleled. The feelings _warm, safe, happy_ drifted like liquid through his half-human, half-animal conscious. For once, Bond did not think of his commonness or vulnerability, but the absolute perfection of having someone support him so tenderly, the comforting and steady sound of a heartbeat other than his own. He turned over onto his back and looked up at Q, showing his belly as the only way to convey _trust you I trust you because you said you would take care of me I trust you._

“You sound like a turbine engine,” Q said to him, as he sat down at his desk. Bond realised then that he had not stopped purring, but did nothing to curb his form’s natural response to pleasure. Instead, he shifted a bit more in Q’s arms to get comfortable, kneading at his chest. He felt a sort of vindictive thrill at digging his claws into Q’s horrid cardigan.

“Stop that,” Q told him, delicately untangling Bond’s nails from the loosened threads of his clothing. The minute he detached, Bond went right back to work, purring even louder when Q did not make to stop him again. Q made a few calls and typed one-handed for a little while as Bond contently wrecked his cardigan. Then he stood and, without setting Bond down, began packing his things. He gathered up the remains of Bond’s clothes from the floor and heaped them into a rucksack, then skillfully shifted Bond from one arm to the other as he shrugged into his anorak.

When he zipped the article closed, Bond found himself pressed firmly to Q’s chest. The jacket smelt like damp and car exhaust and Q, but it felt very warm and _safe_ and Bond thought that he never wanted to be anywhere else. He was vaguely aware of sounds around him--the murmur of voices, the hum of machinery and mechanics, a gust of wind, the evening thrum of traffic--but only broke out of his doze when a car door closed nearby.

He shifted and poked his head out of the top of Q’s jacket to look round. They were no longer at Six, but in some residential neighbourhood that he didn’t recognise. A taxi drove away, leaving the street in silence. Bond inquisitively sniffed the air, trying to get a better view by hooking his paws over the edge of Q’s parka to push himself up a bit more.

“I live here,” Q told him, as he made for one of the identical buildings, juggling Bond and his keys at the main door. Sensing his struggle, Bond made to jump out of his coat, but Q held him firm. “Stay still. We’re not supposed to have pets. Hell, not even sure if my landlord would allow Shifters if he could get away with it…”

Q got the door open and closed it quickly behind him, hurrying down a short corridor toward the lifts. Bond settled back down into the jacket, but kept his eyes over the edge to see where they were going. The elevator stopped at the top floor and the doors opened with a soft _whish_. Bond immediately hid from it, suppressing a growl at the sound as Q hurried to his flat.

But then a door opened and an elderly voice called out:

“Adrian, is that you dear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Gierlowski,” Q replied.

“My, such dreadful hours you work… you poor thing.”

“Yes, I’m a bit tired…”

“Would you like something to eat? You always look so hungry.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, but you look just like my grandson… It’s hard not to. Come, now, let me package up something for you. I made some paczki today.”

At the mention of food, Bond popped his over the zip and found himself face to face with an older woman. She wore a dressing gown and kerchief over her head and her house smelled of being cooked in, which made Bond’s nose twitch as he tried to identify just _what_ she had made. Definitely something sweet, but he identified another scent too. Fish, maybe? Bond’s ears perked up. He suddenly realised how hungry he felt.

“Upon my word, what a beautiful creature,” said the woman. “Is she yours?”

“Um, we’ll see. He’s a stray. I found him out by the bins,” Q replied.

“Just now?”

“Yes, just now.”

“Very clean for a stray,” she observed.

“Maybe recently abandoned,” Q suggested, shifting the weight of his bag. “In any case, he looked hungry. I figured I could take him in for a while. Just until I find a home for him, because I know we can’t keep them... Anyway, it’s getting late and--”

“What are you going to call him?” she asked, not letting him get away so easily.

“Oh, I dunno…” Q replied, “maybe _Cat_?”

“No, no, you’ve got to give him a proper name, what with such a handsome face,” the old lady said. “Oh, I know! What about Mr. Whiskers? It’s cute _and_ gentlemanly.”

Bond heard Q’s partially aborted snort, felt him trembling with contained laughter. In response, Bond laid his ears back and growled, digging his back claws into Q’s stomach.

“I’ll give it some thought. Goodnight, Mrs. Gierlowski,” Q said, wincing his way through a smile as he departed. Bond growled the rest of the way, making sure to scratch Q as he jumped from his coat the moment they were inside the flat.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Q told him, dropping his bags and coat.

Bond ignored him to begin surveying the flat. The floors were hard and cold, so Bond retreated to a carpeted area and hid under a chair, listening to the strange noises as he took in the unfamiliar smells. This was Q’s home and Bond knew it was safe, but he still felt uneasy and vulnerable. Fortunately, Q gave him his space. Bond heard him move about for a while, then retreat to another room. The sound of water running told Bond that he went to take a shower, and he took that as his opportunity to come back out.

He found the kitchen and a small office, then a dark bedroom. A pile of clothes lay in a heap on the floor in front of a closed door, where the water came from. Bond went to the clothing and walked about on it. The articles smelt like Q and still retained some of his warmth, so Bond kneaded at an area he particularly liked before curling up in it. He closed his eyes, breathing in the slight scent of sweat and gunpowder and something sweetly bitter that Bond thought might be tea.

The water shut off and a few minutes later, the door opened. Bond lifted his head as Q exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist.

“Oh, you came out then?” Q asked, as he walked by Bond to the other side of the bed. “Just to shed on my clothes, I’m sure?”

Bond listened as he rummaged through clothes, then reappeared dressed in plaid pyjama bottoms and a loose fitting tee. When Q knelt down, Bond could smell the sweetness of shampoo in his hair, the coolness of soap on his skin, and that just wasn’t tolerable. Bond got up and pushed his head under Q’s hand, rubbing his scent on the other man’s palm. If anything, Q was going to smell like him when he was through.

Q humoured him for a while, then asked:

“Do you want me to do anything about this?”

He ran his fingers close to a burn on Bond’s shoulder. Bond growled and shifted away, and Q resumed petting him as he had been before.

“What about food? Are you hungry?”

At this, Bond perked up. He hadn’t eaten in a while and he could do with something to eat. Q picked up on this immediately and said:

“I don’t have much in the way of people food to be honest...but maybe I have a can of tuna somewhere in the pantry.”

At the mention of tuna, Bond nearly jumped into Q’s arms. Taking the hint, Q scooped him up and carried him into the kitchen, then deposited him on the counter.

“You should probably drink water, too. After everything...you’re probably dehydrated,” Q said, as he pulled a bowl from one of the cabinets. He filled it with cold water from a bottle he took from the fridge, and Bond drank from it gratefully. As he drank, Q banged around in a small pantry in search of something edible. It wasn’t until Bond had had his fill and was cleaning his face with his paw that Q emerged victorious.

Bond’s tail swished as Q opened the can and then scooped the contents onto a small dish. Once placed before him, Bond descended upon the meal with a vigor only his animal mind body could muster. Q respectfully backed away to let him eat, only coming back to collect him when Bond finished and began dozing on the counter.

“Okay, it’s time to sleep,” Q told him, and brought him over to the sofa, where several blankets were laid out. Q settled him into them, curling the fabric round him into a little nest that made Bond purr. Q petted him for a moment, then his hand disappeared. “Good night, Bond.”

And then he was gone.

Bond listened as he walked away, straining his ears to catch the sound of Q getting into bed and pulling the duvet up and over himself, the click of the lamp as it switched off, the tired sigh that Q let out before everything went quiet. Bond lay there for a while, but could not sleep. His skin itched as his wounds slowly healed at the much-faster-than-human pace. He wanted the warmth from before, the peace that the safety of Q’s arms had provided.

It didn’t mean anything aside from his instinctual need, Bond told himself, as he untangled himself from the blankets and trotted from the living room into the bedroom. He and Q were nothing more than coworkers brought slightly closer by the circumstances. It didn’t mean anything, Bond told himself again, as he jumped up onto the bed and walked the length of Q’s body beneath the duvet.

“Oh no, you’re not sleeping here,” Q said, but made no motion to get up and move him.

So Bond continued his exploration, walking up and over Q a few times, rolling around on his duvet and pillows. There were different scents of Q, somewhat faded over time. He could smell back about a week to when it had last been washed. There were work smells, as if Q had fallen asleep in his clothes a few times, making it all a mix of gunpowder and tea and sweat. Then there were warm smells, after Q had been nestled in blankets all night: less of things and more of feelings of happiness and contentment, safety and security. Bond liked this smell, and tried to bury himself in it by wiggling under the duvet and sheet to where it was stronger. And there, amongst all of the scents, was the quiet forest with its rippling brooks and those moss-covered stones...what Q truly _was_.

Bond’s animal mind warned him again that he should be afraid, but Bond couldn’t find it in him to care. The bed was warm and felt so safe and it was like everything he’d ever wanted…

“C’mon,” Q grumbled, sliding his hand up under Bond to scoop him from under the blankets, “at least stay on top of the sheets so it’s not weird...”

Sighing, Bond acquiesced, rolling over onto his back to show Q his belly. Q huffed out a laugh. He smelled less of shampoo now that his hair was dry and more of toothpaste. Bond liked the minty smell, and walked over to get close to Q’s face.

Cats have unparalleled night vision--one thing that Bond always missed when in his human form--which allowed him to see Q in what felt like high definition, even in the dark. Without his glasses, Q looked impossibly young and.

Absolutely beautiful.

Bond wasn’t sure if it was the feeling of safety and home surrounding him, the knowledge that Q was only one person alive who now knew him in the most intimate way, but seeing Q like this was like seeing him for the first time. He’d always seen Q as competent and honest and hard-working and trustworthy, but never really gave much thought to his physicality. Although aesthetically pleasing at first glance--dark hair, green eyes, a mouth that could give anyone wet dreams--Bond had only looked but never _saw_.

He was soft in all the right places--fringe, lashes, lips--to counter the lines of his brow and nose, the barely-there stubble of his cheek and jaw. Bond wondered what it felt like, and, testament to his nature, moved closer to find out.

(Nice, it felt nice, the brush of Q’s facial hair against his whiskers was unparalleled.)

“Really, Bond?” Q sighed, a rush of mint, and Bond rubbed against his cheek and mouth to savour it. “Never pictured you as the cuddling type.”

Q huffed out something that might have been a laugh, and then his fingers were petting behind Bond’s ears, under his chin, and the bed seemed very, very soft. Bond purred himself into exhaustion, settling down beneath Q’s hand.

“Sleep,” Q said softly, his touch warm and gentle, grounding him, lulling him into a sense of security and safety that he’d never experienced before.

And he slept.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond stayed in his Other form for a few days, alternating between sleeping in a nest of Q-smelling blankets and eating directly from the cans of delicious tuna that Q brought home for him from the grocery.

“You’ll get fat,” Q told him, as he scarfed down his second can of tuna one night.

Bond’s response was to clean his face afterward, then, when Q had his back turned, to push all of his things off the counter. The resounding crash told him something important had broken, and it was with triumph that he resumed cleaning his face.

“You’re a monster,” Q grumbled.

Still, Q let Bond sleep in bed with him every night, giving him all sorts of affection as if he hadn’t done terrible things to his home. Maybe he just hadn’t realised that Bond had clawed the side of the couch to shreds, or knocked over all the pots out on the patio while he’d been on his way outside to do his business earlier that day, or stolen that horrific cardigan from Q’s closet and mauled it to death before hiding it in a ball in the back of the closet…

He would eventually, if he hadn’t figured it out already, and Bond was content to enjoy the attention bestowed upon him. It had been a long time since he’d let his Other form have so much time to stretch and relax, and Bond had to admit, he was rather enjoying the holiday.

But once he his wounds healed, Bond started getting anxious to go back to work. He wasn’t content to be a lazy housecat, after all. No matter how good the food and affection were…He thought about that day with Moneypenny, when she’d been talking about _mates_ and _packs_ and couldn’t remember exactly why he’d been so adamant to deny himself.

And then Q would be there, humming to himself as he read, or petting Bond idly while they watched telly at night, and Bond remembered.

He couldn’t be cruel, not to Q.

Never, never to Q.

It would only end in heartbreak or bloodshed, and Bond couldn’t do it, no matter how selfish he wanted to be. He couldn’t let Q get hurt just because he didn’t want to feel lonely. He couldn’t.

He _wouldn’t_.

He allowed himself one more night of indulgence--all the pets, chin scratches, and ear massages he could get--sleeping beside Q, but with first light, Shifted back into his human form.

After days of being small, agile, and on four paws, it was a little disconcerting to be up so high on two feet and with the aches and pains that came with his age. Still, it was nice to take a piss inside, and--after some rummaging around in Q’s drawers for a spare toothbrush--brush his teeth. Days of eating nothing but tuna might be nice for his Other form, but not so much for him. Coffee and something with an insane amount of carbs sounded fantastic.

But first.

He peeked back into the bedroom. Q was still asleep, his back to him. The clock said it was nearing five in the morning. The alarm would go off in about thirty minutes. Bond could find something to wear and be gone in less than five.

But.

Bond felt something tug under his ribcage, something begging him to _stay_.

Q had taken him in, cared for him, never passed a single moment of judgement upon him the entire time Bond had been in his home. A surge of affection washed over Bond, partnered with the sudden desire to return to bed, to slide under the sheets--naked and so very human--and press up to Q until there was nothing between them but skin. And not in a sexual way. Well--he looked down at his cock, half-hard with curiosity--not really. Just to be close, to feel that warmth, that safety again. That sense of belonging.

Is this what _pack_ felt like?

What _mate_ felt like?

The alarm went off with a wail, and Q turned under the duvet, arm reaching out blindly to slam down on the snooze button. His glasses and phone toppled to the floor in the process. Bond heard his muffled curse into the pillow, but then, almost instantly, Q dropped off back to sleep.

It was Bond’s last chance to escape. He knew that if he disappeared now, they would never speak of this again. But he also knew that if he disappeared now, he could never come back…

So.

Bond went into the kitchen and made tea.

The water had just finished boiling when he heard the alarm go off again, heard Q nearly break the clock in two with the force of his hand. Bond added an extra sugar to Q’s tea, hoping the sweetness might appease him. Then Bond quietly went back into the bedroom, where he set the cup down on the nightstand next to the clock.

Q’s head moved under the duvet. His hair poked out, then the top half of his face. His eyes were closed, long lashes dark against his skin. They fluttered a bit, but didn’t open. Bond resisted touching him, because it was inappropriate now that he was like this.

Still, that didn’t mean Bond couldn’t caress in a different way...

“Good morning~” he purred.

Q’s brow furrowed at the sound of his voice. One eye opened, then the other, but only to half-slits of dark green. He blinked a few times at Bond.

“I made tea,” Bond said, procuring the tea so that Q could see it.

Q blinked again, looking at the cup, then at Bond’s face, then at the rest of his very naked body.

“Are you wearing pants?” Q asked.

“About that...you wouldn’t happen to have any clothes I could borrow?” Bond asked.

Q made a sound in his throat that sounded a little strangled, and Bond wasn’t sure what to make of it. Distress? Arousal? Annoyance? It was hard to say.

“There’s. That is, I brought some clothes for you from Six. In the duffle in the laundry,” Q said.

“Thanks,” Bond said, putting the tea back on the nightstand. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Q made the sound again, and Bond definitely detected some distress. But maybe it was at the early hour discussion more than anything else, because Q’s words were jumbled, all in a rush, like he was still trying to wake up:

“Stay. You could, I mean. Stay, shower. I’ll find breakfast?”

Bond felt like he was balancing on a precipice: say no and they go back to the way things were--comfortable, safe, professional--or say yes and… then what?

Well, they say _curiosity killed the cat_ , but what people always forget is that _satisfaction brought him back._

“Not tuna?” Bond asked.

Q laughed, and it was something carefree and unrestrained and beautiful that twisted Bond’s gut up in an uncomfortable way. He knew this feeling well enough to know that it was dangerous. Love always was.

“I was thinking a full English.”

“You read my mind.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

By the time Bond had showered and dressed in the spare set of running clothes from MI6, Q had finished his tea, dressed, popped down to the shops, and returned with a shopping bag of food and a tall cup of coffee for Bond.

It was black with cream and just a hint of sugar, just how he liked it.

He wasn’t about to ask how Q knew, so he just accepted it gratefully and without comment.

As Q began unloading the groceries onto the counter, however, Bond couldn’t resist saying something:

“So did you buy the entire store?”

There were two cartons of eggs, a sleeve of bread, fresh fruits and vegetables, various packaged meats, juice, milk, beans, and a few other various odds and ends. The spread covered the entire counter of Q’s small kitchen.

“I don’t usually keep all of this in the house,” Q admitted, shoving a few things at Bond, “now make yourself useful.”

Bond opened the fridge to put the juice and milk away. The entire fridge was empty save for two half-empty bottles of water. The freezer was in a similar state, only housing a sad miniature carton of ice cream and an empty ice tray.

“You don’t keep anything in the house,” Bond said, closing the door. “You don’t even have condiments. Even _I_ have condiments.”

“Alcohol is not a condiment,” Q reminded him, as he produced a frying pan and put it on the stovetop, “now hush or I won’t cook for you.”

“ _You_ can cook?” Bond asked.

“Contrary to popular belief, I do have other skillsets,” Q replied.

And he did. Bond took a seat on a stool at the counter and watched as Q masterfully cooked a full English in no time flat. Q loaded up a plate of sizzling meats, eggs, toast, beans, and fruit, handed Bond a fork, and that was all she wrote. Bond tucked in like a man starving, glad that Q didn’t seem to expect any conversation from him.

But Bond figured they should talk eventually.

Maybe later. No, probably now.

Q had just slid another helping of eggs onto Bond’s plate when he asked:

“How did you know?”

When Q gave him a questioning look, he elaborated.

“About my Other form.”

“I used my eyes,” Q said, with a sly smile, “and some intuition.”

“Oh?”

Q popped some bread into the toaster before turning back to Bond.

“What else could you be?” Q asked, holding up a hand, where he began raising fingers with each point he made: “Constant resurrection from the dead, so I presume you’ve been using up those nine lives.”

Bond made a face; he hated when people believed that superstition.

“You almost always land on your feet--”

“Result of training.”

“No fear of heights--”

“Plenty of people are not acrophobic.”

“Enjoy fish more than any other meal--”

“A lot of people like fish.”

“Well-groomed--”

“I like to look nice?”

“Loyal to those who feed you, or in your case, give you things you like--”

“Who isn’t?

“And an unhealthy obsession with small, fast-moving or shiny objects--”

“Now you’re just making things up.”

Q smiled knowingly and turned back to the stove, cracking another egg into the frying pan for himself. Maybe Bond had not been as good at hiding things as he thought. But then again, no one else seemed to have picked up on these subtle hints. Q was just more observant than the average person.

“So now you know why I’m... quiet about it,” Bond said.

The toast popped up, and Q caught it, buttered it, and laid it on Bond’s plate before answering:

“No, not really.”

Bond stared at his back as Q returned to tending his eggs.

“I’m an international spy with a license to kill, Q. Don’t you think it’s a little embarrassing that a world-renown assassin is... is--”

“An adorable kitten?” Q supplied from over his shoulder.

“I’m fully-grown,” Bond growled, “and don’t call me adorable.”

“But you are. Especially when you deny it,” Q said, and Bond crossed his arms and looked pointedly elsewhere.

He heard Q add more bread to the toaster.

“Don’t sulk.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Yes you are. That was another tip-off, actually. I’ve never known anyone to sulk as much as you.”

“I don’t _sulk,_ ” Bond said.

“You are not helping your case right now.”

Bond resorted to glaring at Q’s back.

“The Plotting-My-Destruction glare is also very commonplace in felines,” Q said. “It really is adorable.”

“This is why I don’t--” Bond began, but stopped himself before he could continue. He pushed away from the counter and and pointedly went towards the door, in preparation to leave despite being barefoot and having no money to catch a cab.

“Bond,” Q said, and Bond halted at the door.

Q appeared in the foyer a moment later, all teasing gone from his expression.

“You know I don’t mean anything by it.”

Bond did, but he still felt affronted, as if someone had licked his fur the wrong way.

“There’s nothing shameful about being what you are, you know,” Q continued.

“There is in this line of work.”

“No there isn’t.”

“How would you know?” Bond asked, actually growling the words.

Q, to his credit, did not flinch.

“Do you know the torment I would have gone through in the Royal Navy if they knew? Do you know the amount of unwarranted prejudice I would have faced during the practical exams for SIS? Do you know that if it would have been Mallory in M’s place back then, I would have been barred from the Double-Oh Programme entirely, just for how _commonplace_ I was?”

Bond had not raised his voice, but he had stepped closer to Q, who did not move away from him. After a moment, Bond realised what he had said: all of those things he had never been able to tell someone before, all spilling out in an angry wave of bitterness and discontent. And Q still stood there, listening to every word like it mattered, like Bond mattered despite everything.

“I wouldn’t know, not really,” Q said, dropping his eyes for only a moment before looking up at Bond again, “but there is nothing shameful about it. Have you ever thought about how your Other form works to your benefit?”

When Bond did not say anything, Q kept on.

“Think about it: you have an advantage that not everyone has. Double-Oh Four may be able to kill someone with a single bite, but she’s vulnerable in all kinds of environments and people are much more likely to see her before she can strike. Double-Oh Six may be able to maul someone to death, but he’s not exactly subtle; you don’t just see snow leopards on every street corner, now do you? They’re both obvious and that makes them targets, so they can’t Shift often, even when they might need to. You have no idea the amount of damage control I’ve had to do for them...”

Bond raised an eyebrow, and the other man stopped, looking slightly sheepish for a moment. He cleared his throat.

“You, on the other hand, have the advantage of near-invisibility. You can go almost anywhere, follow almost anyone without being detected. You can get in and out of the worst situations. No one looks twice at a cat. Not only that, you’re much more agile, you can fit into smaller places, and have the advantage of perfect balance no matter where you go. So, yes, you may be commonplace, but there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. It’s what has kept you alive this long and will continue to keep you alive.”

“Until someone shoots me,” Bond said.

“Did you not learn anything as a Double-Oh? You’re supposed to shoot them first,” Q replied seriously.

Bond fought a smile and lost. Q managed to contain his much more effectively than him and sobered well enough.

“Now have I stroked your ego enough?”

“ _My ego_?” Bond repeated

“Yes, your ego. Cats are always so self-important…”

“Q…”

“Alright, alright,” Q said, holding up his hands. “I just needed to get it out of my system.”

Bond waited because he knew Q was holding something back.

“Get it out then,” Bond said, and Q started laughing, honest to God laughing, that Bond almost did not hear the words that followed:

“Mr.... Whiskers...”

Bond glared, but when Q saw his face, it sent him laughing again.

“I’m going to piss on all your cardigans.”

It had Q doubled over laughing, and just seeing it, hearing it, made Bond’s bad mood vanish entirely. They had a secret, the two of them. Q knew him for what he really was and had accepted him all the same. It felt good.

It felt like home.

**< <<おまけ>>>**

Bond was on his way to his next assignment when his earpiece came to life.

“You actually had a piss on all my cardigans.”

Q’s infuriated tone just made Bond grin wider with pride.

“Every single one.”

“You’re a bloody nightmare.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is another story to this, when Bond finds out what Q's Other form is, for those of you interested. If so, please let me know in the comments, and I will post this July xx

**Author's Note:**

> Second chapter TK tomorrow


End file.
